Liberation Day ns-5

by Andy McNab

  Between the flashes in my head I could see Lotfi lying on the floor, gripping a charred hand that strained up through the bars of the gate. The flames were beginning to die. Even if his brother hadn’t burned to death, he would have been asphyxiated long before now.

  Lotfi bellowed like a wounded animal, a long, drawn-out, pitiful howl of despair. His sleeves were smoking and burnt away, and his hands and arms were blistering. Bodies moved in and he was kicked away from the gate, but it wasn’t physical pain that was causing his anguish.

  My glimpse of him lasted a second more, before feet rained in on me too. I could do nothing more than curl up, close my eyes, grit my teeth, and hope it would stop very soon.

  Angry Arabic echoed around the walls. The kicking stopped. Hands grabbed my feet, dragging me on my stomach and chest toward the pit. Lotfi’s screams got closer. I pushed down on the heels of my hands to try to keep my face from being grated along the concrete floor and felt the skin of my palms coming away.

  I opened my eyes in time to see the charred but still recognizable bodies in the pit, and the smoldering paint on the gates. My legs were released, my fanny pack got pulled off me, and I was pushed against the right-hand mobile construction trailer. Lotfi was marched over to join me and forced onto his knees. All four of them stood around us, letting off a good kick now and again. The hem of Baldilocks’ pants was just inches from my face. I could smell cologne and cigarettes, and heard heavy, labored breathing as one of them spit on my neck.

  Lotfi seemed oblivious to the state of his arms and hands. His skin was hanging off him like potato peel, some flakes red, some black. His watch and Medic Alert looked as if they had sunk into his grotesquely swollen wrists. The raw skin on my hands, ingrained with grit, was incredibly painful, but nothing like he was going through.

  A pain in the right of my chest was as much as I could bear. I had to take rapid, shallow breaths, and each one felt like I was being stabbed.

  Lotfi caught my eye and started rocking slowly backward and forward with his arms out so he didn’t touch them, just taking the pain. “I should have—”

  He got a kick that rolled him off to his side. They closed in on us again just as Goatee pushed his way through the crowd. They gave him some space as he looked down just a few feet away from us, having nearly recovered his breath. In his left hand he held our passports. The four behind him were already counting out our cash. In his right hand he held an untipped cigarette, unlit, and a disposable lighter. Eyeing us both with mock concern, he placed the cigarette between his lips and clicked the lighter twice before he got a light. His watch, a very slim gold thing, glinted in the sunlight.

  He hadn’t bought his clothes at a street market either. The black shirt looked quality, and his jeans had an Armani label on the back. He smelled of expensive cologne and as he smoked I could see well-manicured nails. The fingernail on the little finger of his right hand was much longer than the rest, to the point where it nearly started to curl. Maybe he played the guitar, or perhaps he just didn’t like using a spoon to scoop up his cocaine.

  He traded stares with Lotfi while I cleared the snot and blood from my nose onto the concrete and my jeans. Hubba-Hubba lay less than fifteen feet away from his brother, yet Lotfi gazed at his killer as if he were studying a painting. I was impressed. I’d known a few people over the years who could keep their head in a gang fuck, but this was something else.

  Goatee looked down at us and breathed deeply, before kicking Lotfi in the leg. “Do you speak English too?”

  Lotfi nodded, his gaze never wavering.

  Goatee took another drag of his cigarette. When he exhaled, the halo of smoke danced in the sunlight above him. “I suppose you are the people on the other end of the radio?” His tone was icy. He was waiting for an answer, but Lotfi wasn’t giving, and he was right, but only up to a point. This wasn’t the time to answer questions, it was the time to start begging for our lives.

  I wiped another fistful of snot and blood off my nose, then went for it. “Look, I don’t know what the fuck is going on here.” I nodded in the direction of the pit. “We were just told to follow those two. We thought they were moving heroin to the Channel Islands. Someone there was worried it was going to affect his business. Whatever’s going on here, we don’t need to know. What the fuck, we can just walk out of here now and forget the whole thing….”

  I knew I had lost him on the first few words. He didn’t even look at me, but remained staring at Lotfi, and took another drag before jabbering off at him in Arabic. Lotfi replied with three or four sentences, which meant nothing to me. I just knew Goatee was getting fucked off by him big-time.

  Goatee forced a lungful of smoke out through his nostrils as he turned to face me. “What does it matter? I do not care who you are. If you came to steal from me, or you didn’t, it matters not.” He flicked the ash over toward the pit. “They are dead. You are dead. I still have the money, and I’ll simply wait for another collection. I can’t afford to take chances. I don’t care what’s happened. God understands, God will forgive me.” He turned to Lotfi. “No?”

  There was no reply.

  Goatee took another drag and turned back to have a word with the black-leather brothers. Lotfi’s lips started to move; he put his head down and rocked backward and forward slightly. I didn’t understand all of it but certainly got the “Muhammad rasul-ullah” bit.

  The Shahada; he was preparing for death.

  He might be ready to meet his maker, but I wasn’t.

  Goatee heard Lotfi too, and turned his head around to watch, before shrugging his shoulders and throwing both passports toward the pit. They landed on the gate, one falling down onto Hubba-Hubba’s black-and-red charred body. Goatee walked away and yelled stuff at the other four.

  Lotfi’s eyes followed the black-leather brothers, one of whom carried the empty gas container, as they walked toward the Lexus. If God was on our side, he needed to get off his butt and do something pretty quick.

  One of the brothers fired up the Lexus while the other pulled on the chain to open up the grease-and grime-covered shutters. The vehicle reversed, then turned to face the exit as the hawallada’s cell phone gave another ring. He opened it up and headed toward the other side of the building. The Lexus went through the door and disappeared. Van Man started closing the shutter as Baldilocks kept watch on us, sunlight bouncing off his sweat-covered head.

  It was a very short phone call: I got the impression that Goatee was telling her he might be back in time for tea after all, but not to keep calling him at the office. Whatever we were going to do, we had to do it before the Lexus got back. I looked over at Lotfi and his eyes were still locked on Goatee. Blood dripped from his nostrils, bubbling as he prayed.

  Goatee put the phone into his pocket and walked back over to us. He’d almost reached us when two shots rang out outside. Van Man let go of the chain. The shutter stopped rattling, about two feet from the ground, as they all drew down and Van Man dived to one side of the entrance.

  There were more shots, followed by shouts and the revving of engines, then the screech of brakes and the sound of a collision. Baldilocks froze, looking to Van Man for some kind of clue about what the fuck he should do next.

  There were more single shots. Van Man took a quick look outside. “Police! Police!”

  Goatee barked instructions at them both. Lotfi had stopped in mid-prayer. The light was back in his eyes. He glanced across at me with a look that said, “You see, Nick? I was right. God’s come to the rescue.”

  I gave him one back that said, “Let’s get the fuck out of here, and let’s do it now….”

  He launched himself at Goatee, as the pain in my chest disappeared and I wrapped myself around Baldilocks before he had the chance to switch himself back on. I hung on to him like a drowning man, trying to keep his arms down and the weapon out of the way. I kept pushing him back, moving my legs as quickly as I could to keep him off balance. The pistol clattered to the concrete and we cr
ashed into the ramp, then fell to the floor, me on top, still wrapped around him. The pain returned, big-time. My ribs felt like they’d been given the good news by a jackhammer. I fought for breath. I heard myself scream as he squirmed under me, his pistol just over three feet away.

  It was a Beretta, and the safety catch was still on. My brain shrank. That weapon became my whole world.

  I fell sideways, arm outstretched, but Baldilocks managed to slow me down, grunting with the effort, dragging at my leg, pulling at my sweatshirt, trying to beat me to it.

  The muzzle was facing us; my hand was no more than six inches from it. I could feel his fingers scrabbling at me, trying to climb over me. But I was there, no pain in my hands now, gripping it to my chest.

  I couldn’t breathe. I couldn’t suck in any air. Trying to turn the thing around, I got it in my right hand. He was now on top of me, forcing the weapon down between me and the concrete. My ribcage started to collapse. I pushed up with my ass, trying to make space under me, trying to spin the weapon around, stripping the skin off my knuckles.

  He grabbed my throat. His teeth bit into my shoulder. I felt his labored breathing on my neck.

  If I didn’t get some air into my lungs soon, I was going down. Starbursts of light flickered across my eyes. I needed oxygen, my head was about to explode.

  More gunshots outside.

  I got the weapon in my hand, but his weight was still pressing down on me too much to move it.

  I twisted left and right, jerking up and down, trying to create a gap so I could free my hand. He bit harder, his hands shifting from my throat to my arms.

  I rolled onto my right side, got the Beretta into his biceps, and fired. He shrieked and sprang off me, clutching the wound, wriggling like an eel. I could see bone and blood as I lay there trying to breathe.

  Lotfi was lying by the pit, a few feet from Goatee. Both were curled up, both leaking blood.

  Sunlight poured in through the gap underneath the shutter. Shots ricocheted off the steel as Lotfi crawled over to the hawallada. I screamed at him, “No, let’s go, let’s go!”

  He’d gotten on top of Goatee and was forcing the pistol into his face. Fuck him, we’d never get him to the DOP anyway. “Just do it, let’s go — come on! Come on!”

  He looked over at me, his face covered with blood.

  “Come on! Do it! The window!”

  Sirens wailed. Rolling off Goatee, he lifted the pistol to fire at Van Man, who was still at the shutter, but he was in shit state; it would be a waste of rounds, and he knew it.

  The weapon came down as I moved to the cover of the Portakabins, my head swimming, vision blurred, eyes wet with pain. “Come on, kill him,” I croaked. “Let’s go!”

  We had to get out of there before the police threw a cordon around the complex.

  Lotfi hauled himself onto his knees, clutching his stomach. “Take him, take him now…”

  He was still scarily calm.

  “Fuck him. Let’s go!”

  “No, I need revenge, you need the hawallada.”

  He staggered to his feet and stumbled toward Baldilocks, firing two rounds into him as soon as he was close enough. One exited his head at an angle and ricocheted off the ramp.

  As he headed for Van Man, I shuffled forward and got hold of Goatee by the feet, dragging him behind the Portakabin. His head bounced on the concrete as he tried to keep his hand over the gunshot wound in his stomach. His black shirt, wet with blood, glistened in the sunlight.

  I stopped at the toilet door. I couldn’t catch my breath, everything was too painful. But I had to keep dragging. Somehow, I got to the window. Blood streamed from my mouth as I bent down and tried to get Goatee onto my shoulder.

  I had to get on my knees to do so, then haul myself upright on one of the urinal pipes. He gave a whimper as I stopped to cough up and spit out another mouthful of blood, before trying to shove him out through the window.

  Chapter 53

  He fell out of the window headfirst, gasping in pain as his shins scraped against the metal rim of the frame, before he hit the ground with a crump and a muffled cry.

  I followed, trying to keep my weight off my chest as I wormed my way through, fighting to stop myself shouting with pain. I finally tumbled down beside him on the dried mud of the track. Sirens wailed in the distance. I got to my knees, trying to suck oxygen into my lungs without moving my ribs. Every intake of breath still felt as if I were being stabbed. I was sweating all over, the pulse throbbing heavily in my neck.

  On my knees, I lifted Goatee by the armpits, manhandling him back onto my shoulder. I struggled to get myself upright, using my legs to push, and my free hand to claw my way up the wall. I tried to take deeper breaths, but the effort just made me cough up more blood that in turn blocked my nose.

  As I stumbled toward the train tracks and Lotfi’s Focus, the sound of sirens got closer, coming down the road behind me and following the river.

  I made my way to the end of the building and peered around it, toward the factory entrance. The white police patrol car was blocking it. The Lexus had smashed into its rear, spinning it around in its attempt to get away, and ending up off toward the farmhouse in the right-hand corner.

  I couldn’t see any sign of the black-leather brothers, but the three policemen were ducking up and down on the far side of the patrol car. Their main attention was toward their left and the farmhouse area.

  Lotfi appeared in the open ground, staggering toward the police with his weapon dangling in his hand. They started screaming orders at him as he made his way slowly toward their line. He was buying me time to get away. The gap between this building and the next was about two yards; after that I’d be in cover right down to the train tracks. He raised his hands as more orders were screamed at him, but held on to the pistol. He moved forward, blood drenching his clothes, taking his time to come level with the Lexus, making sure they were following his every move.

  Would they spot me as I crossed?

  Lotfi moved to the right.

  I tried to fill my lungs, adjusted Goatee on my shoulders as Lotfi moved to the right, toward the farmhouse, firing at the black-leather brothers who were over there somewhere, firing back.

  I went for it.

  Sirens seemed to be coming from everywhere. I couldn’t tell if I’d been seen or not as I crossed. It didn’t really matter. All that did was getting to the car.

  I lurched along the path, a stone building to my right and the brick wall to my left, bumping into both. My vision was blurred; I was feeling dizzy, I needed more oxygen, but it just hurt too much to fight for it. I heard a fusillade of shots from the police that seemed to last forever. If it meant they were still shooting at Lotfi as he ran out of rounds and went at them with his bare hands, I could only hope his end came quickly.

  The track disappeared into a cutting, which was lined on both sides with bushes and caked with soda cans and cigarette packs. The cutting was no more than five or six yards deep on each side, but that would be enough to hide Goatee in while I went to get the Focus.

  I scrambled and slid down toward the train tracks. Goatee was making spasmodic attempts to free himself, but they only lasted a few seconds. He lost it once more and slumped onto me. I could feel his blood soaking into my tar-covered sweatshirt and mixing with my own sweat. His beard rubbed against my right forearm as I struggled to keep him in position.

  Signs that probably said “Do not cross here” were nailed up to warn users of the dangers of this rat run. I picked my way carefully over the stone bedding, then crossed the tracks. My nose was still blocked, and by the time we were on the far bank my mouth was full of blood again, making it hard to breathe.

  I couldn’t muster the strength to get him up the other side of the embankment. I tried, but we fell together onto the dry earth path just a yard up the bank. Sirens were directly above us, on the road beyond the station. It was decision time.

  I lay there in much the same condition as Goatee, both on our b
acks and desperately trying to take in oxygen. He mumbled to himself, then screamed out. I swung a clenched fist to make him shut up, hitting him somewhere in the face. I wasn’t too sure where, because my eyes were still wet and blurred, but it seemed to do the trick.

  I rolled onto my front and crawled over him, leaving him where he was, and headed slowly up the bank, finally coming level with the cracked and potholed asphalt of the packed parking lot. The station itself, a dirty cream brick building, was immediately to my right. I lay there for a minute, fighting for breath, and against the pain that each breath brought with it. Blood continued to pour out of my mouth each time I coughed.

  Craning my neck around the tires of the car nearest me, I spotted the Focus, parked facing the road about fifteen yards away, its tailgate toward me. People had stopped, trying to see what was happening, and were getting on their cell phones to tell their friends about all the excitement. More police cars swooped into the area, one passing left to right on the main road.

  There was nothing I could do to hide myself. I just had to go for it, and get us both into the Focus before there was no way out.

  It was fuck-it time again. I got up and staggered toward the black station wagon, squinting in the sunlight, trying to walk upright and stop myself coughing, and failing at both.

  I burped up some more blood and spit it out. I was going to need to control my breathing soon, and McDonald’s came to my rescue. A garbage can to my right was overflowing with McDo burger containers and grease-stained brown paper bags. I picked one up, tipped out the used napkins and ketchup packets, and shoved it into my back pocket.

  It was then that I heard the gentle thwack of rotor blades up above me somewhere. I couldn’t be bothered looking up, just focused instead on the car.

  The glare of the sun made my eyes water even more as I bent down and started to pull at the thin rectangular license plate. With the key and fob in my hand, I pulled myself upright to go around to the driver’s door, and found myself face-to-face with a skinny, middle-aged black woman with a freckled face and multicolored dress. She stood on the pavement by the Focus with two bags of shopping. She just opened her mouth and stared at my bloodstained, tar-streaked sweatshirt, and at the blood and snot all over my face.